Stone Barrington 06-11

at the Berkeley Hotel, where the doorman found him a taxi.
    “Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.
    “There’s a chemist’s shop across from the American Embassy. You know it?”
    “I do.” He drove away. Ten minutes later, Stone was having his photograph taken by a man with a large studio Polaroid camera, which took four shots simultaneously. He paid for the photos and walked across the street to the embassy. As he climbed the steps outside, he saw a familiar-looking form perhaps twenty yards ahead of him. The man went into the embassy, and Stone quickly followed.
    As he entered the main door, he saw the man get onto an elevator. Although he got only a glimpse, it seemed to be John Bartholomew. He started for the elevator, but a uniformed U.S. marine stepped in front of him.
    “You’ll have to check in at the desk,” the marine said, pointing to a window surrounded by what appeared to be armored glass.
    “Do you know the man who just passed?” Stone asked. “He got onto the elevator.”

    “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t notice.”
    “Can you tell me where to get my passport renewed?”
    “Yes, sir. You go out the main door, turn left, walk around the corner to your left, and the passport office is right there.”
    Stone went to the window first. “Can you tell me if there’s a Mr. John Bartholomew in the building?” he said to the woman behind the glass. “I think I just saw him go up in an elevator.”
    The woman looked at a computer screen that Stone couldn’t see, typed something, and turned back to him. “I’m afraid we don’t have a Bartholomew working here,” she said. She consulted what appeared to be a sign-in sheet. “And no one by that name has entered the building this morning.”
    “Thank you,” Stone said. He wished he could have read the sign-in sheet. He followed the marine’s instructions and found the passport office. He filled out a form, gave it and two photos to the clerk, and was told to wait.
    “How long should it take?” he asked.
    “We’re not very busy; perhaps twenty minutes,” the clerk replied.
    He took a seat and found a magazine.

    In a room several floors higher in the embassy, two men studied a television monitor set into a wall with many other monitors.
    “Is that he?” one asked.
    “Yes, but I think it’s all right,” the other replied. “I think he’s just here to renew his passport.”

    Stone heard his name called. He was given a form to take to the cashier, where he paid the fee, then returned and collected his new passport. He reflected that what had taken less than half an hour in London would have taken most of a day in New York.
    Outside, he couldn’t find a cab, so he began to walk back toward the Connaught. He walked down South Audley Street and turned left onto Mount Street. He had gone only a few steps when he saw a familiar name on a shop window across the street. HAYWARD , the gilt lettering said. He crossed the street and entered the shop, shaking his wet umbrella behind him at the door.
    A large, well-dressed man got up from a couch. “I recognize the suit, but not the man in it,” he said. “I’m Doug Hayward.” He offered his hand.
    “My name is Stone Barrington, and you’re quite right; the suit belonged to Vance Calder. After his death, his wife, who is an old friend, sent all his suits to me. There were twenty of them.”
    “The cost of alterations must have been fierce,” Hayward said.
    “They didn’t need altering; his clothes fit me perfectly.”
    “Then I don’t suppose I can sell you a suit,” Hayward said, laughing.
    “I could use a couple of tweed jackets,” Stone replied, “and a raincoat. I foolishly didn’t bring one.”
    “Have a look at the rack of raincoats over there, and I’ll get some swatches.” Hayward departed toward the rear of the shop, where men were cutting cloth from bolts of fabric.
    Stone found a handsome raincoat and an umbrella, then he sat down and went through the swatches. A few minutes later, he had been measured.
    “How is Arrington?” Hayward asked.
    “I saw her in Palm Beach this past winter, and she was well; I haven’t spoken to her since then.”

    “I was very sorry to hear of Vance’s death. Did they ever convict anyone of the murder?”
    “A woman friend of his was charged and tried, but acquitted. If she really was innocent, then I think it will remain unsolved.”
    “Very strange. I liked Vance, and, of course, he was a very good customer.” Hayward